Posted by John H. Watson
It was the small hours of the morning. Ironically I had left Sherlock sleeping soundly on the sofa while I, on the other hand, tossed and turned in my bed. What do you give a man who, although he doesn't actually owneverything, has the ability to lay his hands upon anything he wishes? Mycroft, for all his pompous manner and upper-class image, really does seem to prefer to live simply and anonymously. Material gifts and a big song and dance would not, therefore, be appreciated. As for festive food, that would just be cruel. Sherlock has told me that Mycroft has tried to diet many, many times and failed: This is the longest he has ever stuck to a diet and exercise regime, and if he were to stop now, he would find it extremely difficult to start again. And with an intellect of that enormity, things such as handy gadgets seem like a waste of space.
I couldn't stand one more minute of insomnia. I got up, threw on a dressing gown and padded downstairs. The fire was still glowing in the grate. Sherlock was slumped on the sofa, laptop on his knee. He'd obviously been working, and despite his repeated claims that he did not need to sleep his brain must have begged to differ. I crept past him and put another couple of logs on the fire. Sherlock sleeps very thinly, and although I tried to be quiet, he stirred. "Oh it's you," he mumbled, sat up and carried on typing where he'd left off. "It's three thirty in the morning, you know," I told him.
"My favourite time," he replied in a sleep-blurred and pre-occupied voice.
"Something to drink?" I asked him.
"Just tea thanks."
I made myself some hot chocolate and Sherlock some tea, settled into the armchair and resumed my bothered thoughts. Sherlock's phone beeped on the floor by the chair and I picked it up. "Mycroft just texted," I told him.
"Delete it."
"You don't know what – "
"Delete."
"But – "
"Delete." he repeated, sounding like a cyberman.
"Why do you resent him so much?" I asked, "He seems tolerant enough. Polite. Leaves you to your own devices. I'd've thought you'd find it good to talk to someone who thought like you."
"Mycroft's not like me."
"How?"
"Many reasons…where do I start? That he used to experiment on me when I was little?"
"Experiment?"
"Oh nothing very spectacular. He once tipped a bucket of water over my head to see what I would do. Another time he pushed me fully clothed into a cold bath. Once when I was six he made me get into a barrel. He said we were hiding from the grown ups so we could run away and have proper adventures, and I believed him. Then he shut me inside it and rolled me down the hill in our garden – I hit the wooden fence at the bottom. Got concussion. Oh, and he quite often made me eat worms and slugs."
"And you've carried that resentment ever since?"
"Well…some of the worms may have been slightly toxic – look I don't know. We just don't get on. What does it matter?" Sherlock's phone beeped. It was Mycroft again and I was once more instructed to delete the text without opening it.
Sherlock was clearly entering one of those moods where, if you do or say the wrong thing, and most things are the wrong thing in such moods, he gets annoyed, but if you keep still and quiet he gets equally as irritated because he hasn't got anything to kick against. I knew I would only get angry if I stayed in the same room, so I decided to try and get back to sleep again. Upstairs I settled down in bed and turned off the light. Minutes later I turned it on again as inspiration flashed into my mind. It was an unconventional present, certainly. Unlikely to work? Very. But was there any harm in trying? None that I could think of, and some good might actually come from it.
I would give Mycroft his brother for Christmas. I remembered after the Study in Pink, Sherlock disappearing with a snide remark, and me starting to go as well, and seeing Mycroft – analytical, calculating Mycroft – standing alone staring after his brother. Little aside comments as well: "What's he like to live with, hellish I imagine?" "This petty feud between us is childish and people will suffer," and in response to me asking if he really was concerned about his brother; "Yes, of course." The more I thought about it, the more I resolved to find out what this great stand-off between then was about, and attempt to set things right. Anyone could see that it was more than just sibling rivalry, or resentment about childhood games. If I didn't succeed, nothing would change, and if I did, Mycroft might just get the one thing he truly wanted but had so far been unable to get.
